Ashamed
by girleater
Summary: Hermione fantasizes about a certain Ministry of Magic undersecretary. -femslash- Hermione/Umbridge


A/N: I proudly ship this pairing. Proudly, I say! Anyway, since I'm currently reading Deathly Hallows, this fic takes place after Harry, Ron, and Hermione infiltrate the Ministry of Magic. So, yes, I suppose this might contain slight spoilers. You have been warned. Enjoy!

Disclamier: I do not own Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K. Rowling.

_**Ashamed **_

For once in her life, Hermione Granger wished she could stop thinking. Once-upon-a-time when all that occupied her teenaged thoughts were deciphering Ancient Runes, or figuring out how to Transfigure a toothpick into a needle, she was perfectly content with staying up well past the midnight hour with her thoughts. Now, however, she would give _anything _just to turn her thought process _off _for one night. Because whenever she closed her eyes, she saw _her. _

Dolores Jane Umbridge.

The name echoed through her mind like the eerie soundtrack to a B-grade horror movie. A part of her wished she'd never met the woman; never sat in her class, never walked with her into the depths of the Forbidden Forest…

…never saw her again at the Ministry of Magic…

…that was, perhaps, the one memory that she _desperately _wanted to forget. Of course, she was disguised as Mafalda Hopkirk (transformation courtesy of the Polyjuice Potion), but that made no real difference, because Hermione could still _feel _it when Umbridge casually brushed her hand, or looked her in the eyes, and addressed her in that silky, sweet-as-honey voice;

"Mafalda," and every time she did Hermione wished that it was _her _name; her _real _name, on her old professor's lips.

And this thought disgusted her.

Because the bottom line was: she shouldn't be thinking about Dolores Umbridge in such a way. It was such a simple, unwritten rule that Hermione, for once, felt utterly stupid. Umbridge was a woman that Hermione had every reason and every right to hate. She had tortured Harry (that blood quill did quite the number on him), instigated the absurd _Muggle-Born Registration Commission_…

…and yet Hermione sat outside of the tent her, Harry and Ron shared, keeping up her nightly watch, her mind swimming with images so inappropriate that even Rita Skeeter would blush. There was a chill in the air, but it had nothing to do with the shivers running up Hermione's spine. She imagined warm, candle-lit rooms, soft, plush beds with sinfully soft silk sheets…and of course, the icing on top of her fantasy cake, Dolores Umbridge, waiting for her on the bed…

"Oh!" Hermione jumped; her hand was resting on the waistband of her jeans. No, no, no, no, no, _no_. Not here, not with Ron and Harry just a few feet away…not ever! She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. She was such a hopeless romantic, apparently. Candle-lit bedroom and silken sheets? How terribly…_sweet_. Hermione supposed that she had to take into account the woman she was fantasizing about--

--No! She refused to admit it, to consider it…she closed her eyes, in an attempt to clear her head, but all this did was conjure up images of Hermione pressed against a wall in a Ministry of Magic-esque corrodor, Dolores Umbridge against her; thin, faintly pink lips ravishing her neck with deceptively gentle kisses…

…Hermione's hand was once again at the waistband of her jeans, and her fingers deftly undid the button and zipper, and with her free hand, she simply dug her nails into the damp earth beneath her…

…those lips were on hers now, a tongue hungrily coaxing the younger girl's mouth open…

…Hermione's fingers pressed against the heated bundle of nerves through her knickers, refusing to actually _feel _herself…despite how much she needed some sort of relief. Hermione Granger _did not _do this sort of thing. She was a model student, she was a prefect at Hogwarts, and she certainly did not approve of such scandalous, self-degrading behavior…

…but a hot, skillful tongue was exploring her mouth, making her tingle in delightfully naughty places…

…"No!" Hermione hissed, attempting to rebuff her sub-conscious' creations. "Now, you listen here, Hermione Jean Granger," oh, _wonderful_, she was talking to herself now, "I refuse to think such things, to _do _such things." But her hand seemed to move against her of its own volition. Was she being dreadfully silly? No one would _ever _know, really, it would be her little secret. But that was the point, she supposed; _she _would know, and, according to principal, that was enough to stop her. And yet her fingers slid inside her knickers, and she winced when she felt the moist consequences of her terrible thoughts. But she was already in much too deep now…

…cold fingers slipped inside her, and a sickeningly girlish whisper sounded in her ear: _"Are you enjoying yourself, Mudblood?"_…

…Hermione arched her back, using her free hand to support herself, and slowly but surely mimicked the actions that (she was barely able to admit the name) Umbridge was initiating on her…

…those fingers _moved_, possessing such skill that Hermione was, for once in her life, jealous of someone else's wherewithal. The older woman's free hand found Hermione's breasts, a whisper, _"You're a terribly naughty girl."_…and that was it…

…Hermione bit her bottom lip; hard, drawing a small amount of blood. She felt heat pulse relentlessly through her, wetness pooling in one supposedly "sacred" spot. Innocence apparently meant nothing to her. Well, she supposed, if it's only her…but those _thoughts_!…

…another unctuous whisper in her ear, _"Say my name, Mudblood." _Hermione stuttered, shuddering against the undersecretary's touch. _"Say it." _She stroked Hermione in _just the right place_, and a gasp escaped her lips. She was close; oh-so-wonderfully close…

…Hermione was struggling to keep her breathing under control. Her heart was hammering painfully in her chest, her eyes half-closed with pleasure, yet she had still retained enough of her common sense to remember not to raise her voice. Ron and Harry…

…"_You are _mine, _Mudblood. Tell me," _her movements slowed, she was barely touching Hermione now, _"do you need me?" _Hermione's reply was barely audible; _"Yes…" " 'Yes' what?" "Yes, I need you…oh, God…" _She began to tighten, her muscles clenching around the other woman's fingers. _"Ah-ah-ah, not until you say my name."_…

…Hermione dug her nails into the earth beneath her yet again, trying desperately to channel some of the excess excitement in a non-verbal way. She wanted to scream; wanted to cry out to the woman she wanted now more than anything…

…Hermione squirmed, begging the older woman to indulge her. _"Say it, Mudblood…_Hermione_." _Hermione looked into her eyes, and opened her mouth to speak, and as a reward, the other woman curled her fingers in a come-hither gesture, and--

"_Dolores_!" Hermione gasped, panting, and frantically curling and uncurling her fingers, desperate for the dizzying pleasure to continue on for as long as possible. At last, the tingling and the tightening subsided, and Hermione was left feeling more ashamed than ever, slumped against the side of the tent, one hand up her shirt, the other down her knickers. She pulled them out, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her robes, resisting the urge to cry. Did she, or did she not, just come to images of Dolores Umbridge…_having her way _with her? Well, strictly speaking, Hermione was all-but willing, but, nevertheless…

"Hermione?"

She jumped. Harry was standing beside her, an expression of worry on his face. "Y-yes?" Hermione's voice was still showing signs of her breathlessness. "Are you alright? I thought I heard you--"

"I just…saw a spider."

Harry did not look convinced, but he didn't press the issue. Shrugging and smiling half-heartedly at her, Harry walked back inside the tent, leaving Hermione alone with her shame. She glanced at her unbuttoned jeans, and cursed herself silently. Well, for all Harry knew, she was fantasizing about Yaxley. Well, that would be at least a smidgen less offensive than her Dolores Umbridge fantasies. Sighing, Hermione pulled her legs up to her chest (making sure to button and zip her jeans), and wrapped her arms around them. She stared up at the star-dusted sky, and concluded, with a mournful, dry sob, that she was, as Umbridge would have said;

"_A terribly naughty girl." _


End file.
